


Remember

by HyphenL



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Gen, M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyphenL/pseuds/HyphenL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of season 1, Hannibal pays dear Will a visit. He then starts talking about past lives, reincarnations, the Knights of the Round Table… Will doesn't believe him. </p><p>Or rather, can't bring himself to face the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Song Of Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of season 1, Hannibal pays dear Will a visit. Will then discovers Hannibal may be actually mad -why else would he be rambling about past lives and them having fought together in european lands?

Here it is, the silent, sliding figure he never told anyone about. The quiet falcon flying high in the blue seas of the sky, his eye piercing.

Here, in his mind, for as long as Will remembers.

Before the nightmares, before any other dream, that bird.

And in his chest, an ache. Longing.

He doesn't want to fly, no; oh no. He'd like the bird to land.

 

A grinding; it's the door opening, the round of a guardian, perhaps, or some visitor walking by the cells.

Will doesn't move. He stays still on his narrow bed, in his orange outfit, watching the ceiling, thinking of a bird.

In his dream he raises an arm, looking at the sky, whistling, calling. _Come back to me_.

The bird ignores him.

The bird flies.

He feels pained that the bird ignores him.

He whistles again, but the memory fades. The steps have stopped by his cell.

“Good morning, Will.”

“Good morning, Hannibal.”

 

They look straight at each other's eyes, Hannibal smirking smugly, making Graham mad.

Mad because somehow, the handsome eyes of that murderer still fascinate him. They look like a thing of the past, two gems of a treasure long forgotten.

When he tries to think about the treasure, he feels a pang of pain and turns away from the thought.

Thinking about it is like looking into a cave made dark by mourning. It's like stepping into a grave.

Will doesn't want to go there, because in this grave, the bird stopped flying.

Why is Hannibal here? He doesn't want to see him.

Yet he can't turn away from his eyes.

They hurt, like blades piercing through his heart, yet he feels soothed, almost grateful for their bite. He is scared of those eyes closing.

“Why?” Will asks.

Hannibal smirks. “Can't I visit my favourite patient?”

“That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

As always, part of Will wants to grab his psychiatrist's wrist to feel its pulse run under his palm. Something he never told him -but there is much he hasn't told him. Which was for the best apparently, as he is, at least, the copy cat killer.

“Though such a tiny word, 'why' grazes immensity” Hannibal mocks, visibly quite happy with himself. “Which 'why' were you referring to?”

“Why do you kill” Will starts. “Why did you frame me -no, not why did you frame me- why did you frame _me?_ By convenience? You aren't lazy; I've seen your... work; I know you always try to overcome yourself, reach perfection -so why _me_? What did I do to deserve your... scorn?”

Hannibal's smile drops, although so slightly.

“You don't remember” he whispers softly.

“Yeah, of course I don't remember, I wouldn't be asking if not! But let's starts simple: why do you kill? For fun? For power? You're already a powerful man, I don't get why you'd need this.”

“Why not?” Hannibal answered simply. “You killed Garret Jacob Hobs. Why did the idea of murder suddenly became acceptable?”

“I wouldn't kill for pleasure” Graham immediately answers.

“You should. You might get a taste for it.”

Graham rolls his eyes. “Alright” he says. “No point arguing with a murderer. But why _me_? Of all the persons you could have used-”

“-All the persons that I could have used and were not my friend, is that what you mean?”

Graham hesitates.

“Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I mean. I believed we were friends.”

“So did I.”

Will frowns.

“So. Do you make a habit of framing your friends over strangers? That's what I don't get.”

“Do you make a habit of forgetting your friends?”

Will ponders. “I don't get it.”

“You forgot” Hannibal says simply.

“... clearly.” Will's starting to wonder if Hannibal isn't _actually_ crazy.

Hannibal smiles, then lowers his head, an eery expression passing on his face. Then he softly starts _to sing_.

Obviously he is perfectly in tune, and his low voice is like a caress to the ears; yet it doesn't change the fact that it is _Hannibal singing_.

 

“Land of freedom, land of heroes

Land that gave us hope and memories;

Hear our singing, hear our longing

We will go home across the mountains...”

 

The song is soft, like a whisper, and nostalgic. It physically hurts Will to hear it.

“ _You came here to sing me a lullaby?_ ” he gasps, covering his ears with both hands.

He thinks about that grave in his mind, cold and dark. The song resonates on his damp, lonely walls, and for a moment he catches a glimpse of dead stone -the mask of a memory long gone. “ _Will you stop that Hannibal?_ ”

Hannibal does.

“Hopeless” he scorns, and during an instant another face superimposes on his -and it hurts so much Will falls on his knees.

The bird. The bird.

While he tries, trembling and weakened, to catch his breath, he tries to think of the bird, high up in the air, in flight.

“Don't- talk about that, _ever_ ” he hears himself say.

Hannibal hunkers down to his level, perfectly collected.

“I remember” he stats casually. “I have always remembered. Since the day I met you, face to face in Jack's office, I knew who you were.”

“I don't want you telling me who I am, Dr Lecter” Will answers, wiping the wetness around his eyes. “You have done that enough already.”

Hannibal cleans up a stain of dust on the bars with a thumb.

“Usually, when people die they return to the world” he exposes calmly. “Though some cannot stand death, and prefer to wander back, steal another's body. Did you truly believe your deductive abilities came only from empathy, William? No; you've cowered around for so long now, even alive you see the dead.”

Graham looks at Hannibal, his sharp features in a impeccable suit, neat haircut, chiseled from nail to toe.

He suddenly feels both so sad and so sorry.

“This... those are stories, Hannibal” he gently explains. “Tales humans tell themselves to feel less scared.”

Hannibal glances at him in annoyance.

“I waited for you” he says. “For centuries, I have waited, delaying my freeing, my going back to the world. You never came. I do not know what fear or folly keeps you here-”

Fear? Folly? Graham chuckled.

“You don't remember” Hannibal repeated.

“I don't remember because _it's not real_ ” Will answered.

“We were knights. Proud and fearless. We rode slender horses in the short, green grass.”

“You're delusional.”

“I had a bird. A brown falcon. You had a friend, blond and tall, that went with you everywhere. Lancelot wore a leather armour that you enjoyed mocking-”

“ _Lancelot?_ What, like in the Knight of the Round Table?”

 _He had a bird_.

“Yes.”

 _A falcon. A brown bird_.

“I'm afraid you've truly lost it, Lecter.”

Will's head ached, and his fingers massaging it didn't relieve the pain.

He genuinely hoped the man was messing with him, but Hannibal looked sincere.

“Alright” Will sighed, “humour me. Who were you? King Arthur?”

“I am Tristan, the Skilful. I came from Eastern Europe, fought side to side with Arthurius and our fellow companions during many years, then died in battle-”

“No! No” Will cried. “What about the others? How comes you're the only one here? Where are my knights in shining armour?”

“They're gone. They're all gone. I was left alone to wait.”

Alone. Was that Hannibal's weakness?

“You're not alone.”

Inhaling deeply, Graham tried his best to calm himself, to quieten the rumble of chaotic images and sounds that kept assailing his mind since Hannibal had sung earlier. He grabbed the other's man wrist through the bars, his pulsing veins, his warmth, and instantly felt better.

“I am alone” Hannibal rose up. “Since you don't remember.”

Enter his game. Pretend to remember. Find his blind spot, to get out of jail.

“Maybe I do” Will said. “Just a little. Isn't Tristan that one... the one who's famous for falling in love with Isolde?”

“You won't fool me” Hannibal answered. “I have spent many years playing around with human minds, fully aware of my true identity. I am very knowing; no-one can fool me.”

“Yeah, well, I should have figured” Will snorted. “You're not exactly the type of person who falls madly in love with someone, are you.”

Hannibal looked at him with disdain. “As a matter of fact, a wild rose bush did grow from my tomb to plunge into a nearby one.”

“Out of love? Shocking.”

“I had time on my hands; you would not accept your death. Eventually I grew quite bored, and decided that I would too be reincarnated. Well. Borrow another's body, for what it matters.”

A thought suddenly lit in Will's mind.

“Is that why you kill people? To make me 'remember'?” he asked, horrified.

“Partly” Hannibal said. “But also, because I enjoy an artful kill.”

The man was crazy. Graham had a hard time believing it, but here was the evidence. His psychiatrist, his rock, was insane.

And he hadn't sensed it.

 _Focus_.

Even madness has a logic. Find Hannibal's, and a way out of jail. Play him, like he played you.

“Alright” Will said. “Let's say I believe you -not that I do, but let's pretend. Who was I?”

Hannibal gave him a long, indecipherable look.

“You were the youngest” he answered. “Gawain's good friend, Galahad.”

Hearing the name felt like lightning piercing his mind. “Galahad?” he repeated nonetheless, cringing.

“Galahad the Pure.” There was a subtile touch of nostalgia in Hannibal's voice when he said the name.

He didn't look like Hannibal.

His hair was longer, darker, wavy, with a messy bang falling on his forehead and a beard. He wore a scar like tattoo under his right eye and a suit of leather armour with a bow.

Graham couldn't watch away from the hallucination, horrified.

“You had brown curls and bright blue eyes” the man depicted. “A laugh like a mocking bell. And fair skin; we called you my lady.”

Encephalitis, Will decided. He was probably not entirely cured. None of this was real.

So he looked at the man.

At his lips. He felt like he knew by heart the shape and curves of his lips, as if he'd looked at them more than a thousand time, imagining how they would feel under the tip of his thumb.

Piercing eyes. Able to guide an arrow unbelievably far, and a knife straight at the centre of its target. Eyes that followed him around.

“If you're Tristan, you must know something personal, that I would only tell the knights” he said.

 _He was insane_.

“Once, you got so drunk you peed on a standing man thinking he was a tree” Hannibal answered.

“ _The man was so drunk, he thought he was a tree too_ ” Graham whispered, as if completing a well rehearsed tale.

The man's face was so beautiful.

He slid an arm though the bars to stroke the other's jaw with trembling fingers.

He couldn't feel a beard; it _wasn't_ Tristan.

He cupped Hannibal's face in both hands, caressing it gently, pulling it towards him as much as he could.

The eyes.

The eyes looked similar.

And resentful.

“Why did you frame me?” Graham asked, unable to let go of that hallucinated face. “What did I do?”

“You don't remember” Hannibal answered.

“I remember. I think I remember.”

“Prove it.”

Will tried to let go of Tristan's... of Hannibal's face, but his fingers curled by themselves into the man's hair, gently stroking it.

“Once, you were so drunk you slept with the same maid twice thinking it was two different women” he said, unable to explain where this anecdote came from.

Trist- Hannibal took Will's wrists to put them away, but Graham grabbed desperately at his hair and they only managed to change nothing to their situation.

“Why didn't you remember before?” he asked.

“ _You're alive_ ” Will uttered.

“I am not, and nether are you” Tristan corrected.

“Shut up. You're speaking. You're warm. You're live and real under my hands. _You're alive_.”

“I am a parasitic spirit in another's body” Tristan rectified again, annoyed.

Harshly, he got Galahad hands off him.

“Was I so easy to forget?” he cringed with bitterness.

“I didn't mean to.”

“That's not what I mean. Lancelot and I both perished during that battle, and yet your lives went on.”

“That's... that's how it goes, Trist- Hannibal. People die. People live. Both not at the same time.”

“Of course.” Hannibal smiled coldly, but in a way that mimicked humour, a sort of complicity between them. “Of course, and I did not resent you for that. After all, I was set free.”

He paused, and Will waited for him to pursue, finish his explanation.

“When I met you, in Crawford's office, I remembered” he said.

“And I didn't.”

“No.”

Hannibal's eyelid briefly fall on his eyes, as in regret.

“No, you did not remember.”

Will felt a pang of guild narrow his throat.

“I hurt you” he said.

“I am not hurt, Galahad” Tristan answered calmly, looking at him straight in the eyes. “I am betrayed.”

His nostrils quivered in anger. “I followed you. All of you. As a falcon shaped spirit, free to go with the wind. Yet, at first, I followed you. Lancelot stayed, too. You've seen him; a tall, elegant deer looking at you from afar in the forest.”

“Yes...” Will's eyes lost focus as the souvenir rose back from the mists of his memory. “A white stag.”

“You saw him. Everybody saw him. Arthur saw him, obviously -even Guinevere. You never rose an arrow against him.”

“We felt... we felt he was guarding us.” As the memories came back to him, he remembered the majestic beast exchanging a gaze with them, slightly bowing his head before entering the forest.

“I taped against your window, once” Hannibal interrupted -or was it Tristan? Hannibal's voice would never have expressed such bitterness. “During winter. Frost gnawed at the glass.”

Will remembered. A presence, that's what he'd felt, interrupting his revery, near Gawain laughing by the fire. He had looked at the narrow window, at the whitened glass -a twig taped on it like a beak.

“You did not recognise me” Tristan said, sadness and hurt briefly passing on his face. “I could see Dagonet running by the fire, playing with children. Gawain saw him. You saw him. You didn't see me.”

“Dagonet- Dagonet was here?” Will asked. “The... the wild piglet?”

“Well. It's Dagonet” Tristan answered in an almost joking manner.

But his wound was too deep for him to really laugh.

“You never saw me” he repeated. “The others did, at times. Not that they cared much, I suppose; but at least they remembered me. You never did.”

_How can one see the dead, when one is trying so hard to pretend they are still living?_

“I'm sorry” Will said.

He seized the other's hand through the bars of his cell -and for a second they weren't Hannibal and Will anymore. Tristan looked at him from behind dishevelled bangs, his gaze highlighted by the twin stripes of a bluish tattoo on his right cheekbone, handsome, beautiful, as deadly and enticing as his newer form was.

Their gazes locked and he _saw_. He saw all the looks Tristan had thrown at him, the scarce, yet consistent, gestures of attention he had showed him thorough their years of friendship.

Tristan was not a man of much words. He was not exuberant either. Galahad remembered him, sitting by the fire, watching him talk to Gawain, an indecipherable look on his sharp features. Always quite distant, never interfering between Gawain and Galahad's friendship, never asking for attention.

So proud of his bird, yet never bragging about it either. “My flying beauty” he called her, and that's when Galahad saw him smile. Then, and when he was about to kill. A man of skill and utmost dedication. “My preying queen” he called his blade, “swift as a silver falcon.”

“Killing is an art.” he also used to say “Everything is, as long as you are human enough to _see._ ”

Once, just once, he had called Galahad beautiful.

Galahad remembered.

He hadn't known what it meant, what was that look on Tristan's face as he had said it -a man of few, chosen words. “Look at Galahad in his freshly polished armour; he's like a mounted prince, on that horse” he had laughed. “Very beautiful!”

And his gaze had crossed his.

He should have known. He should have understood. He should have _seen_.

“I'm sorry” he repeated. “I didn't know.”

“Now you do” Tristan answered, getting Galahad's hand off him. “You know what it is to feel betrayed by your own. And you will know loneliness, hours spent waiting for someone who never comes, for someone so selfish they'd abandon their kin and forget about them.”

Tristan gave him a last, long look, hard and cold, but above all terribly, utterly wounded.

Galahad's was a look of despair.

“Goodbye, Will”.

“Hannibal, please! Tristan! Don't go! I didn't know. _I didn't know!_ ”

Will grabbed the bars of his prison in both hands, screaming at the leaving man, pleading with all his being, a trembling voice scorching his throat, despaired and panicked.

“Don't leave me, don't leave me, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry Tristan I didn't remember; I didn't know! Please don't leave me..._ ”

His pleading broke in a sob, but the footsteps had silenced, and the door closed behind the man, leaving him alone in silence. Will banged his forehead harshly on the cold metal of his prison.

 _I knew_.

Of course, obviously, I knew.

I had to know.

How else could I explain that, every night, in my dreams, I see that bird... _I see you?_


	2. We Will Go Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham… or better said, Galahad, is out of jail. He's coming for Hannibal (well, Tristan). And he's NOT happy.

Hannibal was half done with a patient when the door of his office banged open. Of course, he had been fully aware that Graham was to be released today –evidence had not sufficed to prove him guilty of the murders he had been framed for.

However, Hannibal had not thought his office would be Will's first stop.

So when the younger man barged in through the mistreated door, surprising and scaring his crying patient, Hannibal did not react immediately, which gave time to Will for coming to his chair and grabbing the psychiatrist firmly by the collar of his impeccable suit.

“ _I said I'm sorry_ ” Graham whispered, looking at him straight in the eyes –with the flaming gaze of Galahad. “ _Yet you would have let me rot there_.”

“I am with a patient” Dr Lecter calmly answered. “You will have to wait. Go to the waiting room, Will.”

Galahad hardened his grip and sat on his former psychiatrist's legs, one knee on each side of his hips. “ _Is that really what you want, Tristan? For us to play?_ ”

Hannibal had almost forgotten about Galahad's actual personality, his fierce, violently earnest temper. Will Graham was but a pale copy of it, such a restrained man, trying so hard to deny his true self.

“The waiting room. Now.”

Galahad frowned with anger, his beautiful features cringing; though he released Hannibal nonetheless and slowly got up. “Hurry” he demanded, then went out and closed the door behind him.

Hannibal spent the rest of his session cajoling his frightened patient into permanent trauma.

 

An hour and a half later Galahad barged into his kitchen. Hannibal was cooking, and sighed at the interruption. “It is very rude to enter a house without permission from its owner, Will” he said.

“Don't you 'Will' me, you scoundrel!”

Hannibal recognised the usual burning blue flame in his furious gaze. “Your memory seems in much better state” he noted, going back to his seasoning.

Galahad almost ran to him and plunged his fingers in Hannibal's hair to have him face his own scrutinizing gaze.

“What do you think you're doing?” Hannibal asked, annoyed, in a slightly threatening tone.

“You almost look like him” Galahad answered, observing his face. “Through the actual you was prettier.”

Hannibal took the younger man's wrists to get him off but Will hardened his grip and harshly pulled at the other's hair, exposing his throat. “You were dead”, he said.

Then he was pitilessly kicked to the floor. “You were dead” he repeated, sitting up against the counter. “I saw your lifeless body, carried on a shoulder then lying on dirt. There was blood on your face, in your hair. You didn't move.”

“You say that like it moved you” Hannibal answered. “But I don't remember you crying for me like you did for Lancelot, or later on, Gawain. You didn't even glance at my tomb when Lancelot and I were buried.”

“I couldn't. I couldn't stand you being dead.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes, and resumed his cooking. “We never were very friendly in the first place.”

“Why did you wait for me?”

“Our little troop would be incomplete without you.”

“Even Gawain didn't wait, and I know what's out there, I can feel it now, _the pull_. Knowing that you will be made One with the World. It's very appealing. Why are you waiting for me?”

Hannibal glanced at him. “It is but an excuse. I actually quite enjoy living, even in a foreign body.”

“Don't lie to me.”

Galahad got up, stood near him, watching him with judgement.

“Isolde got lost” Hannibal answered.

“What, your falcon? I'm pretty sure she was the first one to fly into the World Whole, Tristan.”

The other man snorted, then arranged his plater of meat in a more artistic way.

Will rose a hand, gently stroking one of Hannibal's cheekbones with the tip of his fingers.

“I miss your tattoos.”

“Too out of place in such an era.”

Galahad's fingers trailed down Tristan's face, lightly caressing the line of his jaw to the ear, then feeling the length of his for once dishevelled hair.

“I miss your braids, too. I liked your hair longer.”

Hannibal pushed his hand away. “Would you behave? Since when do you let your hands wander on your elders without permission?”

Galahad smiled –the usual, though long time no seen, mischievous grin. Then he slid his arms around Hannibal's waist, getting close to him, hugging him warmly, hiding his face in the other's chest. “I missed you” he sighed.

Tristan stilled, hesitating.

“I will be going” he suddenly said. “I have been postponing my return to the World Whole for far too long. Now you've awoken, I know you will be joining soon.”

Graham's arms squeezed him tight. “Not right now” he demanded, slightly distraught. “Not just now. You have to wait a bit.”

“I waited long enough.”

“I haven't seen you in so long.”

“I was with you all the time!” Tristan snapped. “Every time, everywhere!” He cooled down as quickly as he had angered. “I will be going.”

“Let's go somewhere first” Galahad pleaded. “There is a place I want to see.”

Tristan cringed. “What could possibly be more important than returning to the World Whole? You said you could feel its calling. Do you really want to resist it longer?”

“I want to see our tombs. The place we were buried in.”

“It is probably lost or destroyed.”

“I don't care. I have to see it. I must. You waited so long for me to remember, can't you wait just a bit more?”

Hannibal cringed, then pushed him away. “Alright. But I will not wait afterwards. Once your whim is satisfied, I will abandon this body and return to the World Whole, either you are with me or not.”

Graham's hands were on him again.

“Could you please refrain from touching me like so?” Hannibal said, annoyed.

“I am _not_ letting go of you again” Galahad answered.

“You will have to. Those planes tickets are not going to book themselves. Use my computer to buy them, now.”

The look Galahad was sending put him ill-at-ease. The twin flame of his blue eyes had always been piercing, scrutinizing, although the other knights didn't seem to notice. Tristan didn't shy away from much, but this gaze did succeed in making him quite uncomfortable.

He remembered Galahad watching him so during their time together, the blue of his stare following him while he walked in the inn, or in the stable, pretty much everywhere.

He knew Galahad didn't like him. They were too different –Tristan living for the day, making the most of life even when killing– and the younger man longing for a placid, familial routine, away from the murders the Romans had him commit as a knight. Empathising with the population instead of trying to make the most of the situation.

Tristan actually suspected the younger man wanted him dead –that when he followed him with a burning gaze, he was actually wondering how good it would feel to bleed a man he despised.

Tristan didn't mind much, at first; he didn't have to befriend the lad, only to work with him. Then he witnessed Galahad's loyalty, his dedication to the Knights, no matter whom, his determined temper and willing heart. Things changed, but Tristan wouldn't wallow in self pity.

Whenever he felt a pang of pain, his heart constricting as if the younger man had succeeded in squashing it with bare hands, Tristan simply got up and went to train. Usually he would practice sword fight, because when he took his bow to go Galahad often followed him with his own.

Tristan did his best to ignore him but it wasn't always easy, as he couldn't help but wonder if Galahad's hand would someday _slip_ and wound him. Even though he knew the lad would never hurt any of his companions, he couldn't help but ponder. After all, Galahad asked to battle him in training much more often than any other, even though he kept loosing.

He probably wanted to prove that Tristan's way wasn't the right one by humiliating him through defeat. Unfortunately for the youngster, Tristan was by far the best fighter of their lot.

They had good times, though. Tristan had always been surprised to see how friendly Galahad managed to sound when they were alone –a situation the older knight tried to avoid as much as possible. Yet, the rare times it happened, the lad's company had been quite enjoyable, and he had even succeeded in making him smile once or twice.

Tristan enjoyed those times, but he would not provoke them. After all, as soon as they reunited with the others, Galahad would start whining about their duty to the Romans and loudly criticise how wrong their life was.

Once, all knights had shared their dreams for the future, and Tristan had merely stated he didn't hope for much, just riding his horse and flying his falcon to new lands; Galahad had mocked him, clearly despising his wish for unchained freedom, spitting with bitterness and resentment that Tristan couldn't wait to leave them all behind.

Obviously Tristan had never mentioned this dream again; after all, saying things once was enough, especially to friends.

Well. Comrades. After all, Arthur had Lancelot, Bors spent most time with Dagonet and Galahad with Gawain. They had been others before, but none had really taken interest in Tristan, which he didn't mind too much.They were all at risk of dying, and bonding could very well result in a weakened spirit.

And Isolde was company enough; she never said any nonsense, never criticised his ways and would always come back as long has he had meat to spare.

Now Galahad's hands were on him, as if to insure he was actually real, and Tristan felt the usual shard of pain worm his way to his heart.

At least before, when they were but Will Graham and his psychiatrist, they would seem friendly.

Tristan wasn't delusional enough to believe they had actually become friends, but their relationship had been agreeable. Will didn't look at him as if he was hoping to see him suddenly drop dead.

Well, not until their last meeting in Abigail's former house.

“Stop that” he demanded, taking the younger man's hands in his. “I understand that you need to reassure yourself that all this is real, but being touched so is quite unsettling for me.”

Galahad plunged his burning eyes in his, as if to have him understand something.

“I'm sorry it isn't Gawain greeting you” Tristan sighed. “But you must understand that I'm not him.”

“Tristan, the Forever Shy” Galahad answered mockingly, to the grand annoyance of the other.

He had been called so by his former companions after his death, as well as “Tristan, The Long Loving Knight”, and he had no idea why. It was quite upsetting.

“I am not shy” he replied.

“And I am not exactly Pure, still I deserved that nickname” Galahad answered.

It had been in winter, when all knights gathered around the fire. Tristan had just returned from emptying his bladder against the nearby trees; the other knights where laughing.

“It's Galahad” Dagonet had explained. “He's in love with the prudish person ever.”

Tristan hadn't asked for details, actually hoping they would drop the subject, but Bors had insisted with an odd look on his face to tell him the whole story –that Galahad had set his eyes on a pretty fierce person out there who did seem quite oblivious to his charms and that, instead of pinning them to a wall and snogging them like there was no tomorrow, he had chosen to actually take it slow to spare their tender heart. Galahad seemed pretty embarrassed by the telling of the story.

“What do you think?” Gawain had asked, looking at Tristan with an unusual piercing look. He seemed like a parent protecting their child.

Tristan had hesitated. He thought Galahad was right –that true love, like all matters, ought to be carried out selflessly, for the sake of it, for art. But he also knew the other knights where mostly rough minded peasants.

“I think, if he truly loves her, that it is a good way to prove himself” he answered nonetheless. “Maybe she doesn't deserve it, but at least he will live something very purely, something worth living.”

“Oh oh oh, Galahad _the Pure!_ ” Bors had mocked, laughing.

“It's a man” Galahad had said, looking at Tristan straight in the eyes, probably vexed by his mistake.

That was far too much details for Tristan; he shuddered, and decided it would be best for him to spend the rest of the night away from the fire with Isolde. At least his falcon's presence didn't sadden him.

Hannibal pushed Graham away gently. “Wither you are 'pure' or not doesn't interest me in the least; just don't fondle me. I'm not Gawain.”

Galahad rolled his eyes. “We haven't seen each other in centuries –well, I haven't– and you deny me a reunion hug?”

“You already had your hug.”

“You prude. A kiss, then.”

He took the elder man by the shoulder and gently pressed their lips together.

Tristan seemed puzzled. “I'm not Gawain” he repeated slowly.

“I know.”

Tristan looked at him in wonder.

“I've wanted to do that for quite a time, actually” Galahad explained, sliding fingers into the other's hair and pulling him gently for another tender, deeper kiss. Tristan closed his eyes.

It didn't really matter why the younger man did that; it simply felt so good. Tristan embraced lightly the other's body, marvelling at his warmth and the feeling of desperate longing that seemed to have taken over. He pressed his eyes close as much as possible, afraid of this moment ending.

Maybe Galahad missed Gawain so much he would settle for anyone that made him think of him. Maybe he was so glad to remember the Knights that he wanted to celebrate. Either way, it felt good, especially since Galahad was being so soft, so tender in his gestures; it almost felt like he cared for Tristan too.

And he had implied that he found him attractive, at least enough to actually want this of him, which was pretty much something Tristan would have never dreamt of. So he felt quite fortunate right now.

“I want to make love to you” Galahad whispered softly. “Tristan, let us make love.”

Tristan felt his heart sink, wondering why, why Galahad would suddenly think of him that way, and then decided he didn't care.

“Yes” he said, and a greedy mouth ate the rest of his words.

 

It had been a bad idea. A very pleasurable, yet tremendously bad idea, Tristan thought while lying naked in bed next to the younger man's sleeping body.

First of all, because Gawain would probably resent him when he finally joined the World Whole. Heck, he probably already resented him. And the others would mock him –well. The others could read hearts now; they had probably been laughing at him for centuries.

In love with Galahad! What a stupid mistake; he had to be the only man who would absolutely never ever return such a feeling. They came from different countries, didn't even speak the same language at first; Galahad praised peace while Tristan relished in freedom; the younger man fought to kill, the older one to achieve perfection. One was sociable, pretty, fun, hot tempered and passionate, the other lonesome, rarely speaking, quiet and collected. He hadn't even thought he would look attractive to a man like Galahad –but after being cut off his kin for centuries, the young man had no-one else at hand. He usually preferred pretty persons with clean outfits and impeccable taste.

Tristan shuddered. His new body, the neat Dr Lecter, was a perfect incarnation of this all. That explained the sudden appetite of the young man.

Or maybe he'd actually fallen for Hannibal? Tristan wasn't sure what to think of that; in doubt, he decided to feel happy about it, as it meant Galahad had at least a liking for the person he'd slowly evolved in through time.

Tristan missed his horse and falcon, but he quite enjoyed living as Dr Hannibal Lecter, rich, hedonistic psychiatrist which talent was well recognised. He liked spending time with Will Graham too. He would miss Galahad's days of ignorance –for it meant the end of their friendship.

He also partly dread merging into the World Whole, as it meant his self would be bared for all to see. He could endure a lot, but Galahad laughing when he would learn the truth didn't appeal to him much.

Well, at least he had truly loved someone with all his being. At least he had lived something out of the ordinary.

“You're so serious” Galahad whispered next to him. “What are you thinking about?”.

“Our journey back. If you want to go to Britain first, we have some planning to do.”

Galahad chuckled. “Can't we just spend some time in bed together? We've delayed dying for centuries already.”

“It hurts” Tristan said. “Maybe you don't feel it because you're so good at living in denial, but it hurts. I feel the World calling me, and it's like knowing the most extraordinary thing is about to happen, yet forcing yourself to wait.”

Galahad slid on Tristan, putting his hands on either way of the other's head. “I just found you. I'm not giving you up just yet.”

“I'm not Gawain.”

Galahad sighed. “I know that. Why do you keep fixating on him?”

“Because he knows what we did, and he most probably won't like it.”

“I'm pretty sure he's very happy for me” Galahad said. “Also, he's with his wife and children, so I bet he doesn't really care who I'm banging right now.”

 _Banging_. So that was the extent of their relationship. Tristan thought about it for a time, and decided that make him glad. Until then, he'd never imagined Galahad would want to have anything to do with him outside the Knighthood.

Tentatively, he put his arms around Galahad. Obviously he had done far much while they were having sex, but the young knight might not welcome such gestures outside of a more physical context.

However he did, even smiling in contentment and nuzzling Tristan's jaw playfully. Tristan decided he was indeed very fortunate.

“Anyway, I never loved Gawain, as he never loved me; we were best friends with benefits, not lovers; stick that into your thick head, bird man.”

For a moment Tristan wondered who was that person Galahad had decided to “purely” woo then, but chose to set those thoughts aside. He was very happy right now, and didn't want to spoil it.

“Is that why you always avoided me?” Galahad asked. “Because you thought I loved Gawain?”

Tristan chuckled.

“I thought you'd never stopped despising me” he answered. “You always picked me for fighting practice, and sent me those odd looks wherever I went, as if you wanted me pined down to the floor and taken apart. We didn't really came off to a good start, so I figured you'd never really got out of it, though you grew friendlier with time.”

“ _You thought I despised you?_ ” Galahad gasped, visibly shocked.

Tristan felt ill-at-ease. “Well, we've never seen eye to eye on anything” he said.

“I don't despise you.”

Hearing those world felt like a melting warmth exploding in Tristan's chest. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“And I can't believe you'd think I would!” the other man cried. “Why would you believe something like that?”

Tristan was perplexed. “For starters, you're almost always upset with me” he pointed out.

“You always spoke of running away on your horse, and how you'd never need anyone as long as Isolde was to keep you company! You avoided me like the plague, you barely spoke to me, and the only times I could actually approach you was tricking you into a fight I was sure to lose! How was I supposed not to be upset with you?”

Tristan looked puzzled. “I had no idea you actually wanted to talk to me” he said. A thought suddenly brightened up his mind. “Did you want to sleep with me then?” he asked.

Galahad rolled his eyes, and Tristan believed he had made an embarrassing mistake.

“Of course I wanted to, idiot” the younger man cringed. “Even back when I couldn't stand you I found you pretty attractive. I also thought you were quite clever, though clearly I was mistaken.”

The thought of Galahad finding him actually attractive surprised Tristan, but he couldn't help a grin.

“I thought you preferred neatly shaved men” he said. “Like Lancelot or Arthur.”

“Yet I slept with neither of them. You should stop assuming things, Tristan; clearly you're no good at it.”

“What should I stop assuming then?”

“That I despise you, for a beginning. Your way of thinking doesn't match mine, but I can't deny it's got a beauty to it.”

There were so many good news Tristan started to grow suspicious.

“Why, do _you_ despise me?” Galahad asked, frowning.

“I found you annoying at first” Tristan answered. “But you're always so passionate about things... You really make the most of your feelings and never give up fighting for your ideas; I like that.”

He stroke the younger man's cheek fondly. “You try to do the right thing, and you care about people.”

“While you're a thief who sees potential instead of persons” Galahad smiled, leaning in for a kiss.

They didn't speak for a time, favouring caresses over words.

“I wish this was your body” Galahad eventually sighed, running a finger over Tristan's chest, which a long scar ought to have barred. “I never got to make love to _you_.”

“A body is a body” Tristan answered. “I care not about its aspect as long as it serves purposefully.”

“You don't care that I don't actually look like Galahad? That there is another conscience sleeping in there, with me?”

“Galahad is Galahad, no matter the vessel; I'd love you either way” Tristan answered carelessly. “What is your point?”

The other scrutinized him with piercing eyes, bright like a blue fire.

Then he put his mouth near the other's ear and softly whispered –the nostalgic tune of a long forgotten melody. “ _Tell me now... what you see, tell me what you feel; now you're here, tell me..._ ”

Tristan couldn't hide a smile. “What, are you singing to me now?”

He remembered a time when Galahad had sung this, very drunk, though somewhat still in key, at the top of his lungs. “ _Tell me now what you know; never let me go... Tell me now, what you see..._ ”

“I thought you only sang to seduce maidens” he noted. “I remembered vividly your insistence on the subject –how well pretty songs impressed pretty girls, you'd said.”

“Maybe I also sing to seduce lads.”

“I'm already seduced, ain't I in your bed?”

Galahad chuckled and kissed him. “Let's start thinking about our journey to Britain” he said. “But first things first; let us make love again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written another chapter for this fic, and will probably add a last one after that.


	3. Never Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galahad insists to go to where Tristan and him were buried before leaving. 
> 
> This chapter is mainly Galahad & Tristan; the next and last one will let us now about our dear Willy and Hanny, who are not that happy about having been possessed by two stupid knights all the way to England.

  


“Here it is” Galahad said. “Or, well, _was_.”

The village they'd lived in was now a small town, but luckily the cemetery had not been replaced by a giant Tesco market. Instead, there was a bushy field and some odd woods.

“I'm not sure how to find it back in this mess though” Galahad said, looking for anything that could help him find his own tomb.

Oh, that was a weird thing to search for.

“Find the rose bush” Tristan answered sternly, and with that he went directly to a small wood, uncaring about the dense vegetation that scorched Hannibal's pricy outfit.

“Careful”, Graham advised. Then he pondered. “Do we know what happens to those bodies when our spirits go back to the world?”

“No” Tristan said. “I'd always died with them before.”

Graham seemed anxious.

“Mine's a serial killer that yours' been chasing for months. Are you sure you want to worry about that now?”

“You're right, you're right. Let's find those flowers then.”

It wasn't easy, but they finally managed to find some wild roses.

“Too young”, Tristan said, looking at the frail bush, leaning on a huge tree. “Mine should be as huge as... oh.”

“What?”

Tristan showed him the tree he was leaning on.

“That?” Galahad exclaimed. “It's gigantic!”

“It's very old.”

“That's not a rose bush.”

“That's the tree I spent years to grow, because I was bored and you where not coming back. Also, don't sit on that rock.”

“What? Why?”

“It's Lancelot's tombstone.”

Galahad jumped on his feet, then noticed mischief in Tristan's eyes.

“You scoundrel...”

Then he went near him, touched the bark of the huge rose tree with the tip of his fingers.

“So, I assume your tomb is underneath?”

“Pretty much.”

Galahad's eyes followed the thickest branch that had grown from the tree, from its trunk to a nearby spot of earth in with it plunged deeply. Tristan seemed a bit un-at-ease.

“Here, we've found what we looked for” he said. “Let's go meet the others now.”

“That tomb” Galahad said, gesturing at the patch of grass where the huge branch had buried itself, and Tristan adverted his eyes. “That tomb better be mine.”

Tristan hesitated. “What?”

“You heard me” Galahad said in an eerily harsh tone. “This _better_ be where I am buried, Tristan.”

As the other didn't answer, Galahad turned to him and seized his head almost violently between two hands. “ _Whose is it?_ ”

“Why would you care?” Tristan retorted immediately. He didn't like being pressured.

“Don't be an idiot” Galahad cringed. Then he kissed him with passion. “Is it mine?”

Tristan looked at him in the eye, defeated. “You knew” he said.

Galahad rolled his eyes. “Who didn't!” he exclaimed. “Of course I knew, everybody knew! And I tried to be thoughtful and break it to you... tastily, that I knew, I foolishly though we had time!”

His voice break, his trembling eyes looking like burning water. “And then, you died.”

Tristan was at a loss.

“Is that why you asked for us to make love?” he eventually said. “Because you knew that I... Because you knew of those feelings of mine?”

Galahad had to grab his hair more harshly to avoid slapping him.

“You strive for perfection” he said. “Well congratulations Tristan, you're a perfect idiot.”

He let go of him, and gestured towards the rose tree. “Is this your tomb? Could you tell me were your body is? Do you feel it?”

“No. But if I recall correctly, the bush came out of my chest, so my head should be...”

He started pointing a spot Galahad was already trying to dig up. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Give me a hand here; I'm not going until I see this.”

“You're digging up my grave?” Tristan said, astonished. Is that why you came back?”

He didn't get it. Before, he would have thought Galahad wanted to desecrate the ground of his burial, to prove at last that his way of life where the one to be followed, that he'd won over Tristan.

Tristan would have let him. Part of him quite believed that he was letting him, right now.

Part of him also didn't understand why the young man would make love to him so tenderly, kiss him so passionately, then humiliate him so.

Galahad wouldn't treat a former ally this way.

Galahad was hurting his hands.

“Your nails will break if you do it with bare hands” Tristan said.

“Then give me that rock over there.”

Galahad took it, started hitting impatiently at the hard earth.

“I don't think you're going to do much with such a tool” Tristan pointed.

“I don't care, I have to do this.”

Tristan pondered. “Then let us go to the town, and buy a shovel or some tools.”

Galahad raised his eyes towards him –the stare of a madman, desperate and pained.

“I can't. I can't leave this place. I _have_ to stay here. I have to. I _have_ to.”

Tristan licked his lips, then made his choice.

 

When he came back with a shovel and a pickaxe, Galahad's hands were muddy, bloody, and the young man dishevelled. Tears of frustration pearled at the corner of his eyes.

Tristan took a white handkerchief out of Hannibal's pocket and carefully wiped Galahad's trembling hands with it.

“You've strained yourself too much. You should let me do the digging for a time.”

Galahad made a gesture of denial and grabbed firmly the pickaxe.

Tristan watched him thoughtfully stab the earth near the roots of the rose bush, then dug his own tool in the earth.

It felt weird, digging up your own grave.

Galahad looked truly desperate. Tristan couldn't fantom what he meant to achieve.

They dug a massive hole, almost big enough to contain two laying humans. By the end of the day, they were both in it up to their elbows.

“It should be here” Galahad muttered. “I saw it buried. I saw it buried.”

“If you're talking of my body, or rather my remains, you should rather look under the tree, or near its roots.”

Galahad nodded, and started working the earth out of the tree's roots.

“Night is falling” Tristan said. “We should take an hotel room, come back tomorrow.”

“ _I. am. NOT. going_ ” Galahade spat. “I am not! _I am not!_ ”

Tristan couldn't help stroking his cheek gently with the tip of his fingers. “Galahad. Why is this so important to you?”

Galahad's eyes filled with tears.

That he wiped away. “You are right. We should rest for the night. We can't see a damn thing already.”

Tristan jumped out of the hole, but noticed the younger man wasn't following.

“I'm staying here” he said. “Rent an hotel room if you please, but I'm not leaving.”

 

They slept curled in the hole in the ground, tight one against another in the smell of earth, Galahad's hands curled around Tristan's body, that he had grabbed firmly and would not let go.

Tristan could feel him tremble and mutter in his sleep.

He tried singing to him to sooth him, and gently caressed his dampened hair.

From time to time, Galahad whimpered.

When Tristan awoke, the younger man was already working the earth free from the roots, his hurt fingers bloody, his gaze unfocused, like a madman.

“You are worrying me” Tristan said.

Then he went to town to fetch them breakfast.

As he was coming back to the woods, a cry like a wounded beast's resounded around.

He ran to Galahad, his heart pounding.

The young man was safe, holding something small and yellowish in red hands, rocking gently, quivering in violent sobbing. From time to time he let out a terrifying whimper.

“What's wrong?” Tristan asked while going back in the hole. “Did you find it? Are you alright? Galahad, talk to me.”

Galahad weakly rose the dirty pieces of bones towards him, bits that seemingly had come from a skull.

“He's dead” he said in a small voice. “He's really, really dead. I didn't want to believe it. Gawain, he can't be dead!”

He turned to Tristan suddenly, his eyes burning like maddened blue volcanoes, and seized him by the neck. “ _You liar_ ” he spat. “You traitor. You bastard. _You left me!_ ”

He didn't let go of the bones he was holding, but his other hand squeezed harshly enough already.

“You had _no_ right to die. You _can't_ be dead. You _couldn't_ die, you are the best warrior of all Britain! Have you _any_ idea what that would do to _me?_ ”

He curled his fist as if to hit Tristan in the face, but his blow turned into a claw as he seized Tristan's hair instead, pulling on it painfully. “You're not dead” he said.

“You can't be dead.” His voice broke, his eyes once more like two pools of sorrow. “You can't be dead Tristan, you can't.” His words now sounded like pleading, like despair.

Tristan opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but Galahad looked at the bones he was still holding and suddenly let out a _howling_ that made all the woods go quiet.

Then another howl.

Then a yell.

Then he kicked at Tristan and trashed against him when the other man tried to hold him down, screaming in horror and pain.

Then he sobbed against, violently.

His state would shift from unbelievably violent kicking and cursing and spitting insults to gross, wet, noisy sobbing when he would almost drown himself, to quiet, broken, wide-eyed, catatonic silence.

This went on for two days.

Two days, that seems a long time; but is it for a spirit that had survived through denial for so many centuries?

Tristan never left him, holding him comfortingly in his arms as much as possible, muttering sweet reassurances to him in his mother tongue.

What broke him? Was he out of tears? Burned out of exhaustion? At some point, he stopped crying. He stopped speaking -though he had started spitting blood long ago, as his throat was raw from screaming. He stopped moving.

Tristan couldn't very well understand what was going on; he felt light headed and dizzy out of hunger and thirst, tiredness, too; but he wouldn't abandon him, leave him even for a second.

When the quiet came back, they slept for some time, not even aware that they did. When Tristan woke, Galahad was watching him.

“I didn't mean to leave you” Tristan murmured.

“I know” Galahad uttered in a torn voice. “But I just couldn't bear it.”

His clear, tired gaze looked a him longingly.

_So intense. So pure._

“I knew” Galahad said. “But why didn't you show me?”

Tristan pondered, then adverted his gaze.

“I want the truth, Tristan.” He interrupted himself once to spat out a bit of blood and saliva. “I need it.”

“I am falcon” Tristan said after a time. “I hunt, then I come back for meat. You never called me back.”

He sighed. “You never rose your arm so I would land on it. _I_ never knew.”

“My arm is yours” Galahad said, rolling up tiredly on the older man to see him better. “My arm, my heart, my thoughts; everything. Just tell me that tomb is mine.”

He showed the place where the rose branches were plunging in the earth. “Tell me that is my tomb, Tristan.”

Tristan hesitated. Then nodded, once.

Galahad kissed him.

“Let us go to the World Whole. I want me to be you, and I want you to be me. We shall never be apart again.”

Tristan stroke his cheek thoughtfully.

“I missed you” he said.

Galahad smiled.

Then he kissed him again, and for the last time. 


	4. Vide Cor Meum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and poor Will awake after the events.

Hannibal laid still a long time after waking up. He looked at the sky, in-between the branches. His suit was torn and dirty, his hair dishevelled; he did not enjoy that.

Though for the first time since his birth, he did not enjoy that, _alone_. There was no other mind in his brain than his own. No other conscience. No foreign set of thoughts.

So he laid still, and enjoyed those hours like a sort of _renaissance_.

 

Will awoke hours afterwards. Alone.

Truly alone, the odd spirit of Galahad that had possessed him for a few days had vanished. He could feel a void in his heart, where the love that man had felt for Tristan had disappeared too. It had been such an important part of him, Will realised. Even though he didn't knew about it, that love and the pain that had resulted from it had been determining his own self.

Fear of intimacy. Fear of love. Fear of loss.

He felt himself, yet he felt empty, like a shell deprived of content.

But that was mostly hunger and tiredness, he told himself. Nothing a good meal couldn't cure.

He slept some more.

 

A divine scent woke Will up: something like scrambled eggs and sausage, _a protein scramble_ , the first meal he had even taken with Hannibal.

 _Hannibal_.

He was the Chesapeake Ripper.

That woke up Will completely.

 

Hannibal had purchased an cheap yet elegant set of chairs and garden table, where he had displayed the warm, tasty meal he'd managed to cook himself by casually breaking into somebody's summer house.

Obviously he'd used actual chicken for the meal, pained to have to buy his food at “The Green Butchers”, non-Hannibal approved yet the sole decent meat shop of town. Their marinade was pretty good, all things considered.

“Good morning, Will” he said when he noticed the young man was waking.

William cringed, covering his eyes to protect them from sunlight.

The young man couldn't believe Hannibal was already functional enough to go play pick-nick party in the woods, and dressed as neatly as ever. Even the mud stains where gone. After all that had happened!

And he was the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal gestured to opposite chair. “Would you join me for breakfast? Although it is actually past tea-time here.”

“I'd rather have coffee thanks” Graham answered thoughtlessly. Then he feared the serial killer would resent him for asking for the one thing missing from an otherwise perfect table.

That hole they'd dug in the ground earlier could very well become a tomb anew.

“Obviously” Hannibal answered while producing a thermos that was laying on the ground near his chair. “I apologise in advance for the poor quality of it.”

Will sat down in front of him, surprised at the eeriness of the situation.

“So. When are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” he asked. “Or rather, hordes of elephants in the woods.”

Hannibal smiled discreetly, and Graham felt a neat, tiny pinch to his heart. Lecter's face reminded him of Tristan's, and Tristan's reminded him of a love he hadn't felt... yet recalled vividly.

And Hannibal's face was handsome.

“Which pachyderm would you discuss first?” the killer answered.

He sounded happy, musing, quite joyous to be able to have such an extraordinary talk over a tasteful meal.

“Let's start with the knights” Graham said. “And don't lie to me, I know they were real. You will never be able to convince me otherwise.”

He glanced at Hannibal and understood immediately the other man had indeed considered manipulating him so. Then Hannibal's eyelashes fall downwards as the man went back to serving coffee in a set of white cups.

“I am not sure there is much to discuss there” he answered. “They took over our lives, and our minds during those lasts days, and now they are gone.”

“Spirits exists!” Graham exclaimed, taken aback by the other's calm. “And ghosts, too! Sort-of... This is huge, Hannibal.”

“Yet we can never prove it” Lecter answered. “And will it change the world as it is? Knowing that some people do indeed have trouble letting go, and sometime wander on earth, steal another's body... maybe do other things we don't know of?”

“You can't tell me this doesn't move you.”

“I am deeply excited by the discovery” Hannibal said. “Yet I know I will gain nothing obsessing over the matter –there is no chance that another spirit will cross our paths. I have lived long with Tristan, and I have seen the world through a dead man's eyes: only a few remain, and only for a time. What we witnessed, centuries old ghosts growing strong enough to steal bodies, is absolutely unprecedented.”

He looked straight at Will. “Though I would tell you everything I know if you decide to research the matter.”

That sent a shiver down Will' spine, for he suddenly remembered vividly the obstacle they would be facing there.

“You're the Ripper” he blurted out involuntarily.

Hannibal scrutinized his face.

“Is that why you haven't touched your meal?” he asked –joked. “I hadn't have time to bring anymore guests to our table, if that is what you are wondering about.”

Will looked at his sausage with caution.

“Why?” he said. “You're such a clever man. Well learned. Well bred. And rich, too, by the looks of it. You have good taste, good knowledge of the world, of human nature... why would you kill people?”

“Because I have good taste” Hannibal answered tranquilly. Then he savoured a piece of scrambled eggs like it was the best he'd ever eaten. “Because I have good knowledge of the world, and of human nature. I enjoy a good meal, Will, but would not kill innocent animals over it.”

Graham's throat –hurting throat– tightened. He took a cautious sip of coffee, which luckily wasn't hot enough to scorch him further. His fingers too where aching, bloody, with some nails torn and one missing.

“So you kill the only animals you know to be guilty” he said. “Mainly humans, because at least you are sure to understand why they do what they do, and be sure of their guilt.”

“Indeed” Hannibal answered, pleased to be understood. “I only go for those who disgrace our species –those who forget that being human gives us duties all well as privileges.”

“Dignity” Graham uttered.

Hannibal nodded. “Will you not eat?” he asked. “Are you not hungry?”

Rhetorical question: after days of forced fasting, both men were starving.

“We may be eating with our greatest enemy, Doctor Lecter” Graham pointed out. “Sharing a meal in said circumstances is, in many cultures...”

“Are other people's traditions relevant to us?” Hannibal interrupted casually. “We might be opposed by many things, Will, but we are also brought together by many others. I might dare say, we became friendly.”

Will bit his lip, then took up his fork. “My throat is still raw” he pointed out.

“I might have something to soothe that” Hannibal said, tidying his lips with a paper napkin before taking another thermo that was resting near the coffee one.

“Hot cocoa with milk, honey and a zest of lime” he said. “And some spices too. It should ease the coarseness. After dining, we can tend to your wounds, especially your fingers; I also bought enough for that.”

“You think of everything” Graham answered.

Oddly enough, he wasn't afraid, disgusted or actually moved to be dining with a serial killer.

His mind had been so mistreated lately that he now felt quite at peace, merely having a meal with Hannibal on a tranquil day.

He didn't have much left in him to be mad at the man.

“But why the cruelty” he asked nonetheless. “You have such a sadistic way to kill your victims.”

“Pain is merely a consequence of my way of killing” the other man answered. “It is true I sometimes marvel at the human body, testing its limits, always astonished at its resilience. But I do not aim to kill with pain. I actually are not a sadist, as you once said; sadist look for pleasure in pain. I find it there, but I do not research it as so. Pain is mainly another beauty of this world.”

Will swallowed his bite with difficultly, then looked at the older man.

“I have to say, the way you put it, I find it increasingly difficult to believe you are an horrible man.”

“Who says I am?” Hannibal answered jokingly.

Graham's smile faltered, and his eyes wandered. Yes, whom? Jack Crawford? Society?

Part of him still resisted the words that had been said to him. But the rest was enticed.

“You're entirely too charming” he uttered, resuming his eating. “You actually succeeded in having me doubt my values.”

“Yours values?” Hannibal smiled. “Or values that you have taken up as your own?”

“Stop trying to... what are you trying to do, anyway? Convince me not to arrest you?”

“That could hinder our friendship” Hannibal remarked.

 _That could hinder our friendship_.

Simple words, simple truth, yet one Will had not had time to consider yet.

Hannibal and him were _friends_. And good ones, too. True, Hannibal, with the help of Tristan, had framed him and tried to alienate Jack and Alana and... most people from him; yet there _was_ a deep bond between them. Something Will had not felt with anyone before –the knighty business excluded.

“You putting me in jail kinda hindered our friendship” Graham said. “And framing me. That's not what good friends do to each other.”

“At least that's interesting” Hannibal answered. “And you got out of jail. There weren't enough proofs. At least now you know who to trust.”

“Not you” Graham said.

“I know who you are, Will” Hannibal replied. “Do your others friends?”

Alana. Will thought of Alana. She'd been scared of him.

Everyone believed he was guilty. Everyone thought he had gone insane. No-one questioned it.

Alana didn't question it.

“Friends make mistake” Will said.

“And put you in jail because of it. I put you in jail because I wanted to set you free.”

“That is quite a ridiculous thing to say.”

“Yet a truth. You have so much potential Will, yet you coward and hide, blinded with pain. I want you to get pass that pain.”

“I want to get pass that pain too, but not in the way you want me to.”

“If you don't accept that what you learnt about 'right' and 'wrong' is mere dogma, you will always feel guilty for feeling pleasure as a killer.”

“Guilt saves me from becoming a monster.”

“There in nothing monstrous in murder. Death is but a natural state of the living: as we are speaking, many cells of our body are dying, and many cells of our body are murdering other cells, foreign ones, to preserve their own existence. Life lives off the living, Will. Should we feel guilty of being alive?”

“We shouldn't kill when it is not needed.”

“So we don't. There is always a cause.”

“Not always a good one. You kill because you believe some people act with little dignity. What is dignity to you? It's a different thing for all of us!”

“I don't need a reason to kill” Hannibal said. “I kill to feed. I merely target people my own world would be embellished without.”

“They are _people_! With _families_!”

“Don't mistake my actions for disdain” Hannibal warned. “I care very much about human beings. But I care just as much for any other living being. I do not think humans have the upper hand over other species.”

Graham had nothing against that. And he couldn't go back to Lecter's sadism, because it clearly wasn't –it was curiosity tainted with hedonism.

“That's not how we live in society” he said. “Living among other humans means duties and rights, as you said. If a citizen agrees to have rights, he agrees to his duties too, and one of them is to abide by the law. The law says, do not kill other people.”

“Now then” Hannibal smiled. “ _That_ is a relevant argument. _That_ could bring me behind bars, my dear William, because that is a sound reason to say I am guilty. I would not lie to you: it is true I do not abide by the law.”

“And I, as an agent of the law, have to put a stop to that.”

“But do you want to?”

William hesitated. “Of course I do! You _kill_ people!”

“No, Will. I mean, do you want me to end up in jail?”

“You put me in jail.”

“I got you out of it. The jail was in your mind, and you needed to see physical bars around you to understand your true potential.”

“You still put me in jail, you bastard!” Will exclaimed, furious. “Don't try to make up excuses for it!”

“I am not lying to you” Hannibal answered calmly. “I would not lie to you, unless a lie could help you.”

“You can't help me by alienating me from others.”

“You're already alienating yourself. You did not need my help for that.”

“But I was doing fine without you.”

“You are doing fine with me, too.”

Graham sighed.

“This could go on forever.”

“Indeed” Hannibal answered, taking a sip of coffee. The prospect didn't seem to bother him.

“I don't want you to kill more people” Will said.

The other looked at him.

“Are you going to tell the truth now, William?” he asked.

“I'm not the liar here.”

“Oh, but you are... And you shouldn't feel the need to; if a person is able to understand without condemning your 'less tasty' thoughts, you know that would be me.”

Graham bit his lower lip.

“I don't want you to go to jail” he blurted out. “And I don't want you out of jail either, because you're dangerous.”

Hannibal didn't interrupt, looking very interested in Graham's sudden honesty.

“I can't trust you to stop killing” William added. “I can't even trust you to not kill me.”

“I would not, kill you” Hannibal said. “The world is far more interesting with you in it.”

Graham seemed troubled.

He remembered the gun, himself pointing the gun at Hannibal, and Hannibal merely talking, not taking action. Hannibal could have been shot, _wanted_ Will to shoot him.

“You have a peculiar way of showing your caring” he said.

“Should I be plain towards the extraordinary?”

For a split instant, Graham felt love for the man. Deep, cutting, unconditional love.

Damn, the guy was good.

“The way I see it, we have two choices” Will said. “One, you escape to wherever, and we never meet again. You'll live how you see fit and I'll always feel guilty to know more families will be in mourning by your fault. Two, I catch and imprison you. No-one dies by your hand anymore, and I sleep well at night.”

Only he wouldn't, he suddenly realised. Because there'll always be other killers.

“Three” Hannibal added. “You let me show you how to get pass the hurt, and we both live in good company until life does us part.”

Graham swallowed. “I'll feel guilty if you keep killing people.”

“I'll feel bad for you if you keep thinking people are worth more than other animals. The barrier of language doesn't make other animals of lesser value. They deserve respect too.”

Graham chuckled. “I'd almost believe you there Doctor Lecter, but I'm pretty convinced you'd kill anything if it suited you.”

Hannibal rose his coffee cup to him, smiling amicably. Then he took a sip.

“I care for you, Will” he said. “And I wish we could be friends.”

“We are friends” Graham answered. “As much as we can be. And I do enjoy your company. I just can't associate with a serial killer. I'm too much against people getting killed.”

“Too bad” Hannibal said casually. “If only you could see the truth of the world, we wouldn't need to part.”

“If only you would be a good citizen, we wouldn't, no.”

“Good citizens don't exist, Will. People mainly are opportunists that agree with the law when it suits them and discard it when they feel like they can get away with it. Even Jack isn't a good citizen: he's bending the rules to have you on the field. He isn't being a decent man either: he kept pushing you, even when you were breaking.”

A shard of glass sank deeply in Will's heart.

“The law isn't perfect” he uttered. “And there's a huge difference between bending the rules and erasing a life.”

“The consequences are more obvious when it comes to murder” Hannibal agreed.

“Don't try putting Jack and yourself at the same level. He gives orders. You kill people.”

“He gives orders that kill people. Less obvious. Same result.”

“You're twisting it. You killed Miriam Lass. He only told her to look around.”

“I wouldn't have killed her if he hadn't sent her.”

“He wouldn't have sent her if you hadn't killed other people.”

“I wouldn't have killed others if I hadn't been hungry.”

“You can kill a... a chicken or a cow, or a–”

“Why not a human then? Humans kill each others all the time.”

“Because it's not...”

“Proper.”

Graham sighed, then nodded.

“We will have to agree to disagree then” Hannibal said. “I don't discriminated against species as you do.”

Graham covered his face with his hands, and Lecter scrutinized his nails.

“I will take care of your hands now, if you let me” he said. “This seems quite painful.”

He took a little box with him and neared his chair. “How is your throat?”

“Quite better, thank you, though I believe it will need much more time to properly recover.”

Hannibal started treating Will's wounds with care and a sort of tenderness.

“You know, I really like you” Will said tiredly. “I hate that we can't be friends.”

“We can be” Hannibal answered.

“Oh, you are impossible. No, we can't, not unless one of us makes drastic changes to his way of life, and I won't do that.”

Hannibal glanced at him.

“You wouldn't hand me over to the police if you knew I wasn't going to kill anymore people?”

Graham pondered, then nodded. “If only I could be certain. What use is it to imprison people who will not do further arm? Aside from protecting them from vengeance, I mean.”

Hannibal seemed thoughtful.

“But you can't be sure” he remarked. “So you'll have to arrest me anyway.”

“Yes.”

Graham seemed pained. He looked at Hannibal, who was doing a very careful job at mending his fingers, treating him efficiently, without having feel like a fragile teacup; yet his effort showed his caring. Underneath cold, calm and quiet, Hannibal was quite a passionate man.

One whom loved life deeply, and thoroughly.

“I wish you weren't a killer” Graham muttered again, sadly. _Or that it wouldn't be a crime to kill_.

Hannibal rose his eyes towards him, maroon with pinpoints of red, frightening, terrifying, yet strangely appealing. Like fire could be. Or a typhoon. Beautiful and deadly all at once.

Will remarked his own eyes where looking straight at the other man's, yet he didn't care. He didn't feel un-at-ease, just saddened. And calm.

And...

He leaned in, closed the space between them, put a gentle kiss on Hannibal's lips.

“Maybe those knights didn't choose us at random” he said. “Maybe there's always been something between us, as there was between them –two opposites who feel draw to each other.”

Hannibal didn't answer; he just repeated, deepened the kiss.

He kissed just like he tasted life, savouring.

“I don't want to be in love with a serial killer” Graham whispered in an almost pleading tone.

“I'm not a serial killer, I just happen to kill people” Hannibal answered seriously. “And I wish very much that you would join me, as for diner. Else, I will go, and will miss tremendously your delightful company.”

Will cupped the handsome face between two bandaged hands.

“I'll let you go” he said. “I can't arrest you. I don't want to, even though I should. Not now, anyway. But I can't stay with you.”

Hannibal lowered his eyes. “I wish you'd reconsider.”

“It's already been considered. It's no, Hannibal. I'm not coming with you.”

The maroon eyes rose up again. “Then it is goodbye” he said quietly. “I will miss you, dear friend.”

“And I you” Graham whispered, part of him in disbelief that he would truly do even after finding out who Hannibal really was.

“But eventually we'll meet again” he added. “When we die. In the 'World Whole'. We'll have all of eternity to discuss.”

Hannibal's gaze was unreadable in his.

“You said, 'until life do us part'” Will remarked. “This is then.”

“I was a pleasure meeting you” Hannibal said while standing up. “I hope we randomly meet again.”

William managed a bitter smile.

“Not too randomly, I hope. And not because of a _series_.”

Hannibal inclined his head lightly, as for a salute.

“I am looking forwards to see you in the World Whole” he said.

And, with that, he turned his back to Will, to the whole diner table and abandoned digging tools, going his way in life as if another adventure had already begun.

Will Graham looked at him walk until he'd disappeared, then watched his bandaged hands, the neat, careful band-aid and cotton pad arranged around his wounded fingers; he looked at the finished meal, simply yet tasteful arranged on the elegant table; he looked at the two thermos bottles, one of coffee, one filled up just for him with cocoa, to sooth his throat...

And then he cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t supposed to end up on an angst note, but I just can’t write totally OOC. Sorry Will!


End file.
